Whistleblower

by Stefanie Pintoff

  —

  “Mommy! Mommy!” A girl with pigtails tied in pink ribbons was shrieking. Her wails even drowned out a chorus rendition of “You’re the One That I Want” from Waterbury High.

  A grandfatherly-looking man with a thick white beard crouched down beside her, handed her a handkerchief. “Sugar, don’t worry. I’ll help you find your mommy. Can you tell me your name?”

  She stopped screaming. Between sniffles, she said, “Jamie.”

  “Do you know your last name?”

  “Luna.”

  “Jamie Luna. That’s a very pretty name. And what’s your mommy’s name?”

  “Mary.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “At the building by where the fruit guy sells apples.”

  The white-bearded man sighed. “Well, there’s a lot of guys who sell fruit in this city. I think we’d better find a nice policeman to help us find the right fruit seller. What do you say?”

  Another sniffle. Then she took his hand, saying, “Okay.”

  They walked toward the corner of West Sixty-third, where four members of Critical Response, heavily armed, were keeping an eagle eye on the throngs.

  The girl balked. Stared. Started bawling again.

  “Don’t worry, Sugar. They’re just dressed to scare off any bad guys. They’ll call an officer to help us,” the man told her.

  —

  Mace didn’t like following plans—but he followed this one. He only hoped that it didn’t go wrong and land him back in a jail cell.

  These were desperate times. Cops were on edge.

  He disappeared with Burke behind the crowds. Shoved the creep forward ’til he found just what he wanted.

  First, a bench—with a nice view of the Time Warner Center.

  Second, a short guy who wore his cop uniform a little uncertainly. Who didn’t have a partner within the line of sight. Who’d been relegated to the periphery of the Frozen Zone.

  Mace removed the cuffs, dumped Burke on the bench. He’d keep a close eye on him to ensure he didn’t move anywhere fast. But he was so out of it, Mace doubted Burke could even move five feet of his own accord.

  Mace walked over to Shorty.

  “Hey, excuse me. I saw the news reports about how that cop killer escaped prison. Maybe I need my eyes checked, but isn’t that him, sitting right there?”

  He pointed to the bench.

  The beat cop pulled out his phone. Opened his information on the wanted escapee. The cop’s eyes grew big and wide. Probably filling with visions of promotions and commendations and a very different future than he’d imagined that morning when he put on his uniform.

  He scanned Burke’s fingerprint ID. Made a couple calls. And just for good measure, he pulled out his cuffs and wrapped them around the wrists of the insensible man splayed out on the bench.

  “I’d better get going,” Mace said.

  “Wait! I need a statement,” the cop said.

  “What?” Burke suddenly stirred. “Whaaat?”

  “It’s all good,” Mace assured the cop. “Just smile for the cameras. You can take all the credit.”

  The cop nodded, unsure.

  “Hey, aren’t you the guy who broke me outta jail?” Burke gaped at Mace groggily.

  The cop maneuvered Burke into a sitting position. “I don’t know why you fell into my lap, but you’re back in custody, asshole. Take a deep breath, because it’s the last gulp of fresh air you’re going to have for a real long time.”

  —

  Psychology was about probabilities and predictors. Eve ought to be able to use that to figure out a few things about Allie’s kidnapper. She began an imaginary conversation with him, trying to understand what he thought and felt and ultimately desired. “You knew so much about Allie—her movements, her family. Why her? What had she—or the commissioner—done to you?”

  Eve looked around. Saw toddlers on fathers’ shoulders. Mothers keeping their broods close. Grandparents holding babies.

  “Why did you make the commissioner cross the line for his child—first with a ransom, then a cop killer? Why do you need to involve the Thanksgiving Day Parade? What does this stage symbolize for you that others don’t?”

  So many people, ten rows deep, cheering and waving. So many families gathered ’round, watching balloons and floats and holiday magic.

  He’d chosen the parade.

  So this kidnapper’s motive had something to do with children? Or with the commissioner? Or simply an event that catered to families, celebrated on a day when most people gave thanks?

  Eve still didn’t know her adversary. She couldn’t yet predict his next move. But if she kept this information front and center, then maybe he would spring into her mind, flesh and blood, with a purpose that made sense to her.

  Her phone vibrated. This time it was Jan, her forensic tech—and one of the few people in the department whom she trusted implicitly.

  “I’ve got the test results back,” Jan told her. “We have a problem. We’re going to need every resource we have for this one, Eve.”

  Chapter 63

  350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters

  Haddox and Eli entered Allie’s account on WebJusticeForUs.org. Her screen name was Monique10.

  Which was consistent. Her Instagram username had been Monique Morgan—a name that still struck Haddox as one he’d heard before.

  Allie’s first post—titled I have a problem—had been about her mom’s death. She was devastated. She was shocked. She was also suspicious. “My mom had beaten breast cancer,” she wrote. “There was no reason for her to die. And stuff my dad says doesn’t make sense.”

  The_Crusader lent a sympathetic ear. So did Kitty123. They’d both lost people, too.

  “I’ve seen the lowest of the lows,” Kitty123 wrote. “Someone gunned down my mom, my sister, and my three-year-old niece. The police think a drug dealer went to the wrong house.”

  “My pregnant wife had brain cancer,” added The_Crusader. “She didn’t get the right treatment. When she didn’t make it, I lost the baby, too.”

  Both were on this forum to get amateur help. They wanted more details on their loved ones’ deaths. Kitty123 had gotten lots of tips on drug-dealer activity in her mother’s neighborhood at the time of her death. The_Crusader had received stats on what better treatment options might have worked.

  Monique10 wrote: My dad has a bad temper. What if he hurt my mom? She wasn’t sure. But he had been having affairs. And he didn’t seem too broken up about her mom’s death. Worst of all, her mom had died in an alleged accident on vacation. Where would I look if I want real evidence?

  From there, the ideas flew. Check the death certificate. Check the police report. Give him a taste of his own medicine. It was unclear whether Allie had followed up on any of their suggestions. Whether she had become a modern-day Nancy Drew.

  “You think this is real?” Eli asked. He poured a bag of PopCorners into a bowl.

  “Looks real enough,” Haddox said. “But right now, what matters is not just the truth of it—but how people like The_Crusader reacted. Did any of them cross the digital divide?”

  “She didn’t post anything personal.” Eli chewed a chip. “She aired some dirty laundry, sure—but she kept names and details out of it.”

  “Not completely. Look at her entry on August fifteenth. She mentions that it’s the one-month anniversary of her mom’s death.”

  “C’mon. Even these crazed Web sleuths would be hard-pressed to figure out who she was from that. According to WHO, over one hundred fifty thousand people die around the world, every single day.”

  Haddox looked up. “How do you even know shite like that? Anyway, Allie didn’t have to share personal information to broadcast her ID on the Internet.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She thought that posting under a screen name made her anonymous. She didn’t realize that anyone with a bot—used to roam websites and harvest IP addresses—could find her individual IP,
meaning the unique identifier that links her particular device to the Internet. And with a naked IP address, it would take anybody less than two minutes to find out it was a private residence on West Eightieth Street.”

  “You’re worried about The_Crusader or Kitty123? You think an online relationship went real-time and got her kidnapped?”

  “Something else. From the commissioner’s files.” Haddox flipped his own laptop computer screen open. Toggled through a series of files. “His security detail kept a list of the commissioner’s affairs, apparently worried that any woman he saw could pose a security risk. And I don’t particularly care whether the wanker enjoyed a happy marriage. But there was more, in the internal files,” he muttered.

  —

  He pulled the files, then stared at the screen intently—as though if he blinked, its contents might change.

  “There.” Haddox pointed. “You tell me: Does this strike you as suspicious?”

  Eli shook his head. “He hired babysitters. Ran a background check on them. Strikes me as pretty normal.”

  “What about 2006?”

  “It was a good year. I saw Barbra Streisand live on her last nationwide tour. I drank fizzy drinks in Antigua over New Year’s. I—”

  “Not looking for a trip down memory lane. Jackie Meade’s background report is right in front of you. Focus on 2006.”

  Eli scanned it. “I’m still not with you. So what?”

  “Three weeks in the loony bin, and all you can say is So what?”

  Eli stiffened. “So happens that I’ve spent a few weeks at Lochmere Asylum. They have a good treatment program. Don’t see why you have to be so judgmental about it.”

  “Look, you pulled yourself together. Went on to orchestrate the white-collar crime of the century. Got sent to jail. Managed to land a sweetheart of a get-out-of-jail-free card. In contrast, what did Jackie do?”

  Eli refocused. “Uh…looks like she had some trouble. Lots of addresses.”

  Haddox rattled them off. “New Hampshire. Georgia. Wisconsin. Oregon.”

  “Lots of dead-end jobs.”

  “She bounced from McDonald’s to Walmart to ShopRite.” Haddox leaned over his knees, stretching his back.

  “Lots of aliases.”

  “Including Monique Morgan. I knew I’d seen that name before.”

  “Maybe that’s a famous actress or sports figure—and both Jackie and Allie use her, like I use Muggsy Bogues when I don’t want to give my real name.”

  “Don’t think so. When you look to the security detail list in 2006, Jackie was one of the commissioner’s affairs.”

  “So she fell for a man in uniform. It happens. I have to confess—”

  “Don’t confess a thing. Now look at 2008.”

  “She took a live-in position taking care of his house and his child.” Eli was exasperated now. “That takes balls—moving your mistress right into your house, alongside your wife and kid.”

  “Not his mistress anymore,” Haddox corrected him. “First Diane Ritter, then Kecia Wallace, and finally Cathy Healy take her place on the security detail list as the commissioner’s current romantic distractions. Why would he do that? And how did Jackie feel about it?” Haddox grabbed a handful of Eli’s corn chips. “I met Jackie. It’s like her brain is full of cats; you can practically smell the crazy on her.”

  “Total conjecture,” Eli argued. “We don’t have time to chase coincidences just because you like your Basic Instinct theory.”

  “Look, you found evidence on Allie’s credit card. It led to this Web account paid for by Allie. Ostensibly written by Allie—and making serious allegations about Jill’s death. That’s when an idea hit me.”

  “Sure hope it left a bruise,” Eli muttered.

  “What if it wasn’t Allie?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Look at the time stamp on Monique10’s messages. September twelfth at eleven-forty a.m. September fourteenth at one-thirteen p.m. September twenty-first at nine-thirty-two a.m. Those are weekdays. Allie would be in school. And her last message? Posted at ten-oh-six p.m. last night, after Allie was kidnapped.” Haddox let that sink in. “What if Jackie was the one who used Allie’s credit card and computer—and made those allegations? That would say a lot about how much resentment she harbors against the commissioner.”

  “I don’t know how you come up with this.” Eli rubbed his temples. “Maybe you’re just smarter than me.”

  “You ought to put that in writing. Gotta admit: Jackie had a helluva motive to hurt the commissioner.”

  “Even if I’m convinced, strikes me there’s still one important question we ought to answer.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s one thing if Jackie’s mad at the commissioner. Isn’t it another if she’s actually right about the bastard?”

  Chapter 64

  Along the Upper Parade Route

  García pushed his way through the crowds. He hadn’t forgotten what he smelled earlier in the room where Allie and Frankie Junior had been held. He also couldn’t forget a saying that his first commander had been fond of: “The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent.”

  That was Sun Tzu—from an ancient military treatise.

  It was also the idea behind the Greeks’ Trojan Horse. The Coalition’s Hail Mary in Operation Desert Storm. And—García was pretty sure—the kidnapper’s plan today.

  If he was right, then he needed to get back to where the floats were lined up. Because that was where the bastard was going to make his real move. Right where it had all started. Right where the NYPD mobile units were all set up.

  Because this wasn’t just about the commissioner and his daughter. Or even what had happened to Frankie Junior—who was now stable and out of immediate danger.

  García believed there was a plan tied in to the threats the NYPD had intercepted targeting their own.

  He weaved through the crowds. There were too many people.

  Young mothers with babies. Teenagers with skateboards. People with scarves and with turtlenecks, high-collared coats. Dads with small kids on their shoulders.

  “Nooooo!” a toddler with a mop of brown curls wailed as the paper bag he was holding tumbled to the ground, creating a trail of popcorn confetti.

  “It’s okay, Leo,” his mother soothed. “Look! Your sister has plenty. Sara, share your popcorn with your brother.”

  Floats and balloons and performers were all passing by.

  Mickey and Minnie Mouse. A cheerleading squad from Augusta, Maine. A float with spinning performers from Cirque du Soleil.

  A juggler on the side street was tossing six balls in the air, entertaining spectators in back who were stuck with bad views.

  There were so many people. Too many people. Like a sea full of moving, bobbing heads.

  It was always a miracle when this parade started and finished—and nobody got hurt.

  As he pushed his way north, he scanned the faces around him. Stuck to his training. Looked for anyone who didn’t belong.

  He began to step past the barricade, heading toward the lineup of floats and balloonicles, marching bands and performers. He summoned his paranoia and hypervigilance to recognize the danger. He’d not been this focused on a mission since his last tour in Fallujah.

  Suddenly, a man came up beside him. He jostled García hard from the left.

  Stupid idiot. Man, did he hate crowds.

  García glared at the man who’d shoved him. The man moved away, launched into a run. Just like someone who didn’t belong.

  Behind him—a whiff of odor. Mothballs.

  An uncomfortable feeling slithered south in García’s chest. Instinctively, he broke into a run, chasing the guy.

  He went sideways, toward Columbus, away from the parade route.

  Within seconds, García was right behind him, shoving and pushing.

  The guy shoved a balloon-and-stuffed-animal cart to block García’s path.

  García lea
pt over a mountain of Pokémon. Still gaining.

  The guy scuttled an empty baby stroller into García’s path. Its spilled cargo of diaper bags and bottles nearly tripped him.

  Whoever this creep was, García needed to engage with him. Even if his every instinct warned him not to.

  Bad juju.

  He could feel his breath escaping him. He’d never moved so slowly before. What the hell was wrong with him?

  But he’d never been unable to chase down a target he wanted to stop. Mind over matter, he reminded himself. Just do your job.

  That was what trained soldiers did—and they did it on too little sleep and way too much stress.

  The crowds became thinner. What crowds there still were, scattered out of his way.

  What’s happening?

  García became aware of horrified glances. Of people pulling their children back, making far too much room.

  He staggered, fell to his knees.

  Looked down.

  Registered the red, sticky substance spreading from his ribs all the way down his jeans.

  That’s odd. I never felt a thing when he shoved me.

  He looked up, his eyes searching the crowds. Looking for the man who’d done this. Who was now getting away.

  He tried to get up. He was finally feeling the pain—the dull throb he’d ignored now flashed with growing intensity.

  The problem was: He couldn’t breathe.

  “Are you all right?” A uniformed cop with a concerned face was above him.

  He tried to answer. It was like scalding hot metal had filled up his lungs.

  “He’s bleeding!” someone shouted.

  “Was he shot?”

  “Oh my God—”

  “We need an ambulance!”

  The cop yelled something into his radio.

  García thought about Frankie Junior. He thought about his vow to catch the guy who’d hurt his kid—and make him pay. He was absolutely going to do that.

  Later.

  Because right now, he really needed to get some rest.

  Chapter 65

  Along the Parade Route

  We make important choices in response to each situation.

  I had to kill Rambo. He was too much like his namesake—a man on a mission, determined to interfere with my plans.